Coconut Southern Comfort Layer Cake from Bon Appétit

I forget how old I am.

It started when I turned 36. Someone asks me how old I am, and I have no response. I stare at them blankly and have to reply...

I forget.

That reply usually gets an uncomfortable laugh from the person who is waiting for my response. They don’t know if I’m joking. Or being a jerk. Or being coy about my age (I’m 29. Again. For the fifth time. Heh.) (Gross.)

I know what year I was born. 1973. 

But somehow I’ve lost the ability, on command, to have an immediate response to the simple question of “How old are you?”

Even when I began typing this, I had to force a number to appear in my brain. It always appears in the area above my eyes. In sadly dim, yellowish lights. 

39.

And then I get a feeling that my brain has lost its place, as the brut force of all these years come pushing forward from somewhere in the back of my memory. Rushing forward against the 39, which elongates and explodes from the pressure of it all. Too many memories that seem timeless and immediate and unearthed from a completely forgotten part of my past, mixed tightly with bedtime stories that I just read to our kids.

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